


Laundro-Matt

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Awkwardness, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fingering, Fluff, He has no idea how to do this, Laundromat AU, Matt the Radar Technician references, Meet-Cute, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Poor Kylo, Public Sex, Window Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's Kylo Ren. He's one of the top ten richest men in New York, in the top 50 of the world. He should not be standing in disguise in a 24 hour dingy laundromat, doing his own laundry like some ordinary citizen.<br/>And then she comes in, wearing what are obviously her 'laundry day' clothes, big orange headphones, and a smile brighter than the sun.<br/>Most of his clothes are 'dry clean only', but when did anyone actually listen to those tags, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s Kylo Ren. 

He’s Kylo Ren, one of the richest men in New York. The innovator, the billionaire, the man who’s managed to charm almost all of the high brow investors when no one else could. Co-founder of the First Order, philanthropist and benefactor to several organizations. 

He’s Kylo Ren, and he’s standing in front of a 24 hour laundromat with a basket under his arm and a ridiculously itchy blond wig plopped on his head. 

The events leading up to this quite frankly bizarre scenario are a bit blurred, honestly. He can recall his assistant – the fourth in the same amount of months – quitting just before his brunch with several investors tomorrow morning. He can recall rummaging through his closet to find the sweater that one very well regarded investor gave him to schmooze said investor out of another few billion, and finding the dark coffee stain on the cream fabric from a meeting the week before. He can recall reaching for the phone before remembering that no dry cleaners would be even open at this time of night. 

The dim, dirty 24 hour laundromat is his best bet if he wants to get this deal tomorrow. 

He sighs, glancing at his watch before stepping inside the small establishment. The door gives a little less-than-cheery ding, the batteries of the bell needing to be replaced desperately. He glances towards the old man he’s fairly certain is asleep on the bench, seemingly the only other human being in the laundromat. 

He sets his basket down, having decided to do a few other pieces of clothing along with the sweater, and pushes his fake glasses up his nose as the old man in the corner snorts and shuffles, finishing with a snore.

Definitely asleep, then. 

He pulls the sweater out, and is frowning at the rather dark coffee stain on the cream fabric when she enters the ‘mat. 

She’s dancing, if one could even call it that. Dressed in what looks to be a pair of cream-colored terry shorts and a white tank top, she has a large pair of orange headphones covering her ears. He watches as she does some little butt-wiggle move that really shouldn’t be as cute as he finds it, and sets a small cloth hamper bag down. A brown messenger bag slides off her shoulder as she bends, hitting the floor with a hard ‘BANG’ and startling him so much that the cashmere sweater falls from his fingers back into the basket. 

Apparently his little jump catches her attention, because she glances up at him through her dark lashes, and pushes one side of her headphones back behind her left ear. She grins sheepishly at him as she starts to pull out pieces of dark clothing, holding them to her chest. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes, and he blinks at the sweet British accent that falls from her lips. 

He just stares at her as she looks back down at her laundry and pulls out darks, throwing them into one of the machines. He watches as she pulls a Ziploc bag from the messenger bag and starts to put quarters in, pulling a bag of laundry pods from another pocket and tossing one into the machine before starting it. 

She grabs a thick book from the messenger bag and hops up onto the table next to his basket, tugging the headphone back into place and swinging her legs as she starts to read. 

Kylo stares at her for a few moments, watching her bare feet as she abandons her worn-out plastic flipflops, the footwear hitting the tile floor with two twin ‘slap’s. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the old man leaving with a wicker basket of what Kylo assumes are too-big khakis and ancient cardigans. 

It’s just him, and her. 

He looks back down to the sweater in his hands, frowning at the dark stain and running his fingers over it. It wouldn’t do to use bleach; the sweater itself is cream, it would destroy the color. He sighs softly, setting it aside as he pulls out the rest of his things. His dress shirts and suits he’d leave to his new assistant, whomever that may be once he hires a new one. But he can wash his casual clothes, at least, throw in a few pairs of underwear while he’s here. 

He’s in the process of pulling his darker clothing from the basket when he feels a soft poke on his bicep. He jumps, dropping the pair of jeans as he turns to stare at the pretty girl. 

“Here, this’ll do it,” she’s saying, leaning over and offering him a dark blue colored stick, the cap garishly orange.

Kylo stares at the stain stick. “What?” he asks. It comes out a lot harsher than he’d intended it to, and honestly sounds kind of like a duck’s quack, but only the slightest flicker of annoyance crosses her pretty, freckled features before she leans over a bit more to tap the cap of the stick on the coffee-stained sweater. 

“Coffee, right?” she asks, glancing between him and the sweater. “Stain stick. It’ll help get it out.” 

She offers him the stick again, this time accompanied by half of a smile. 

Kylo blinks at her, before reaching forward to take the stick. Before he knows it, she’s pulling her headphones back over her ears and reading again, legs resuming their swinging. 

“… thank you,” he mutters, though he’s positive she can’t hear him. 

-

She leaves before him, having only done one load while he has to do two – one with the sweater, and one with the darker things. She loads her things into the hamper, tucks her book and quarters into the messenger bag, and slides her flip flops back on. 

He looks up as she pulls her headphones down around her neck, and offers him a pretty smile. “Good luck with that stain!” she calls as she leaves, the door dinging pathetically with her departure. It’s almost a degradation, really, the ding far too pitiful for personification of a ray of sunshine. Someone like her deserves a bright, cheery ‘bing!’ as she goes. He watches her as she turns left and walks down the block, eyes darting to her firm, shorts-covered ass before the dryer machine startles him with its beeping. 

He slips his clothes into the dryer she’d just emptied, loads his quarters in, and presses start. 

-

The stain does come out, thank God. Kylo sighs softly as he hangs the sweater up to wear the next day, already thinking of putting it over top of a dress shirt and beneath a dark blazer. He tugs his wig off, rips the fake glasses from his face, and tosses them to the bed before reaching for his clothes to start to put them away. 

He folds his t-shirts, hangs up his jeans, and matches his socks. He’s halfway through the basket when he sees a flash of something white, sticking out like a sore thumb with all of his darks. He frowns, reaching forward and tugging on the fabric. He blinks as he pulls out a lace bralette, white and sheer and does this even cover anything? 

He holds it up, watching the light of his bedroom shine through the soft mesh. There are floral appliques where he assumes the nipples would be on its wearer, and the back’s nothing more than a few straps thinner than his pinkie nail.

Kylo continues to stare at it for a few more moments before his eyes widen in realization. 

_Her._

She’d used the dryer before him. 

It must belong to _her._

He looks down at the skimpy thing in his hands, before gently setting it aside and continuing to fold his clothes. 

He sets it on his dresser before going to find more of his clothes that won’t be ruined by a cheap 75 cent washing machine.

-

“Did the stain come out?”

His gaze snaps up from where he’s leaning against the table. There she is. 

This time she’s wearing jean shorts, and a button down shirt that’s seen better days. There’s a button missing at the top, and the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. It’s stained in a few places, but she looks positively radiant and somehow put-together despite the rips in her shorts and the random colors on her white shirt. 

“Yes, thank you,” he says, hoping he sounds a bit kinder this time. 

“Good,” she pipes, setting her bag down. 

He’d come back every day for a week. His clothes are cleaner than they’d ever been. He washes things that have been in his extensive closet for years without being worn, simply because their tag didn’t say ‘dry clean only’. He’s pretty sure, if she hadn’t come tonight, he’d start rewashing new things just to get the chance to see her. 

Luckily, it hadn’t come to that. 

It’s a week from when he first saw her, a Tuesday at 11. She’s wearing the same worn-out flip flops, and her dark brown hair’s pulled up into some sort of messy bun on top of her head. He watches as she unloads her clothes, painfully aware of the bralette in his back left jeans pocket. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Kylo bites his full bottom lip, coughs, and tries again. “I-“

There’s the sound of a coin dropping, and the resulting roll. “Shit,” she hisses, and she goes down to rummage for it. He frowns, leaning over a bit to watch her as she looks under the machine. “That’s gone.” 

She comes back up and sighs, running her hand down her face before opening the washing machine. The door sticks so she has to tug it a bit harder than necessary. He watches as she pulls the pod out, and then starts to pull a sweater back out. “I didn’t bring any cash with me,” she explains. “I only had enough for one load.” 

“Oh,” he says, immediately rummaging through his right back pocket where his quarters are. “Here, I bought too many.” 

It’s not a lie. He doesn’t carry any bills less than a 20, and 20 dollars in quarters is an absurd amount of quarters. He’s been saving them since last time, and just brought a handful, not paying attention to the amount as he’d packed his clothes and walked the few blocks to the laundromat. 

The look of relief on her face is almost sweet, and she offers him a bright smile as he puts a few quarters in her hand. Her smile’s big enough that he can see the way her eyes squint, the way her nose crinkles, how white her teeth are. 

“Thank you,” she says, sincerely and sounding just as relieved as he looks. “Thank you, so much.”

“No problem,” he mutters, watching as she bends and uses the extra quarters he’d given her to wash her more … delicate things. He averts his eyes at the collection of black and white and nude, trying to keep his cheeks from flushing too badly. 

When she puts the pile of underwear on the table to fold, he purposefully drops a quarter. By sheer dumb luck, it rolls over towards her, and he gets both a nice view of her ass and the chance to shove the bralette he’d had under the pile. She comes back up holding the quarter, and offers it to him. 

“You drop this?” 

“Even if I did, keep it,” he says with a shrug. 

“Oh,” she says, looking at the quarter before giving him that bright smile again. His chest suddenly feels too small for his heart, his throat too thin for the air trying to get through. She pockets the quarter, sweeping her underwear into the hamper and kicking the dryer door shut behind her. “Thanks!"

“You’re welcome,” he offers, feeling weak in the knees as she gives him a wave and leaves. 

If she notices that he never actually transferred anything from the washer to the dryer, she never mentions it.


	2. Chapter 2

“We have the internship applications.” 

Kylo looks up at Hux, the redheaded man leaning against the doorway to Kylo’s corner, window-filled office. “How many this year?” 

“Over 540.” 

“And only 15 positions?” Kylo confirms, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip of it. It doesn’t even look like coffee anymore, if he’s honest, filled with sweetener and flavoured creamers. 

“They bumped it up to 20 because of the amount of interest.” 

“And how many will be assisting me?” 

“Just one.” 

One. One insufferable college student, working for him for six weeks. He makes a face behind the lip of his mug, huffing softly as he sets the mug back down on his desk

“I can handle one.” 

-

He finds some old band t-shirts from his teenage years in a vacuum bag in his hall closet. They don’t smell bad, exactly, but they smell a bit like the sweat he’d worked up the last time he wore several of them; some concert festival out in some muddy field back before he landed himself in an office.

There’s no chance of them fitting him now, he knows, but maybe he could get one of the interns to put them on an auction site and get some cash. They’re another excuse for him to visit the laundromat, anyway. 

She’s already there when he arrives, his laundry bag slung onto his shoulder. He can see her through the dirty windows, the neon sign flashing against the water marks and finger smudges and turning her different shades of red and blue. 

The bell’s no longer working. He looks up at it to stare at the small grey box like it’s offended him, but eventually he shrugs and continues on his way. He steps inside and sets his bag down next to her. 

“Hey.” He glances towards her, hoping maybe she’ll greet him back. Are they at that level? He’s not entirely sure if they’re on a level at all. After all, she’d just lent him her stain stick and he gave her quarters. And he’d accidentally taken her bra, but that’s something else entirely.

She’s in a white tank top and jean shorts, this time, her hair loose around her shoulders. “Hey,” she says, not taking her eyes from the thick book she’s reading.

At least, not until he starts taking his shirts out of the bag. 

“Holy shit.” 

He glances towards her, taking in her wide eyes and brilliant smile. “What?” 

Her gaze flits from the shirt in his hands to him. “You like Han Solo?” 

Like, is the son of, what’s the difference? “Yeah,” he says, blinking at her as she seems to practically vibrate of excitement on the table. The book is set down immediately to the side, page dog-eared much to his chagrin, but her attention’s captured by the piles of 100% cotton on the table beside her.

She’s grinning, but it’s not at him. She’s grinning down at the shirts he’s taking out of the bag. Millennium Falcon, his dad’s band. A few of his father’s shirts that one time he did a solo album. Some from his dad’s guitarist, Chewbacca – a hairy foreign man whom he used to call ‘Uncle’. “They were the first CD I bought,” she explains, picking up one that used to be white but has since turned cream with age and unfortunate sweat stains. If she notices the slightly musky smell, she doesn’t say anything. He takes the time to pull them out and lay them on the table so she can see all the designs. 

“Really?” he asks, conversationally. 

“Uh huh, took me 7 months to save up for it,” she explains, looking at the graphic of his father in some dramatic pose with his guitar and trademark smirk. 

“7 months? For a CD?” he asks, frowning. It couldn’t have been more than 10 dollars, maybe 12 or 13, if he's remembering correctly. Then again, he'd never actually bought his father's CD, it was usually just given to him. It took her that long to save up? 

“Foster family – no allowance,” she explains, setting the cream one aside and picking up a light grey one. He tosses the cream one into the washer, putting a laundry pod in and the quarters but waiting until she’s finished looking at them before tossing the rest in. He leans on the table beside her, arms crossed and braced against the cold metal.

“Ah,” he says, because what else is he going to say with personal information like that?

She offers nothing else as she looks at the shirts. Every time she puts one down he picks it up and tosses it in the washer. There are about 14 in total, some with the necklines cut but not too terribly to detract from their value. The ones he’d cut up strangely or into tank tops are long gone, tossed into the trashcan years ago.

“These must be worth something by now,” she mutters, setting the last one aside. He tosses it in with the load and closes the door, pressing the delicate setting just in case and starting it. 

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he replies, leaning on the table again. He’s walked around this time, so that he can lean on it and look up at her instead of them facing the same way. “I’m thinking of auctioning them.” 

“For how much?” she asks, and there’s a slight flicker in her eyes that he can’t quite distinguish but thinks might be something like hope. 

“No idea, I’ll need to do some research on what they’re going for.” 

“The rarer ones could go for hundreds, easily,” she explains. “Especially if they’re the darker ones that don’t show stains.” 

“Good to know,” he mutters, nodding towards her book. “What’re you reading?” 

She looks down towards the tome and pulls it up into her lap, showing him. 

“Principles of Economics?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her. 

“One of the classes required for a business major,” she replies, setting it back down on the table with a loud 'clunk'. 

He blinks. He was a business major. But he holds his tongue, in fear of revealing too much, and hums. “So you’re in college.” 

“Yeah, Alderaan,” she replies. “Junior. I’m trying to finish the book before the interview I have on Monday so that I can have some phrases to throw around.”

“Interview? A job interview?” he asks, leaning back against the table again and crossing his arms over his chest. He pushes his fake glasses up his nose as they start to slip down. 

She hops down as her washing machine beeps, and he bites his lip as her shorts catch slightly on the lip of the table and he’s given a glimpse of bare skin. She doesn’t seem to notice, bending over and pulling her clothes from the washer. 

“Yeah. Well, not really job interview. Internship, I guess,” she starts, walking around the table to put them in the dryer. He doesn’t bother turning around to watch, knowing she’d come back eventually. His eyes find her again as she hops up next to him, hands braced against the metal table and feet swinging again. “I don’t have quite enough experience for a job aside from barista-ing yet.” 

He hums. “I hope you get it.” 

“Thanks,” she says, turning to smile at him. “… I’ve never really met anyone else who does their laundry this late.” 

“It’s quiet.” He shrugs. “Usually nobody else is here.” 

He learned that the hard way, waiting for her on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, the weekend, and Monday night before finally making a full circle to Tuesday. It seems she does her laundry once a week, and he frowns at the meager amount of clothes that she brings with her. 

“I’ve never seen you. What’s your name?” 

Oh, God. He full out panics, freezing up and hoping his fake glasses hide the widening of his eyes. He glances around the laundromat for something, a clue, an idea, anything. Fern? No. Tide? No. Washer? Definitely not. 

He catches the old sign saying ‘LAUNDROMAT’ over the dryers. “Mat.” 

“Matt?” she repeats. “M-A-T-T?” 

“Right.” Sure, that works well enough. He opens his mouth to ask her name when her darks beep, and she’s hopping down again to unload them. She pulls a few pieces out before switching the others over, putting the delicate pieces into her hamper. He catches sight of something lacy and sheer, and averts his eyes as she folds it. 

They don’t talk much after that. He waits for his shirts, transfers them into his bag to air dry at her recommendation. “Hang them up somewhere, it’ll keep them from getting too worn out,” she explains as he folds them.

“Thanks.” He means it. 

“Sure thing. See you, Matt,” she says, and throws him a smile that makes the flickering fluorescent lights all the dimmer. 

“See you.” It doesn’t come out as confident as he’d like as he leaves, wet t-shirts soaking through the bag and his own orange t-shirt as he makes his way home. 

-

“Carry the 1.” 

“What?” 

He points to the equation on her sheet; some accounting practice thing, with large numbers that make his head hurt. No wonder he hires people to do this for him. This is a pain in the ass. “I think you should carry the 1.” 

She’s quiet for a moment. It’s not quite silent. He can still hear the rumblings of their machines, the humming of the middle-aged black woman across the laundromat. He can hear the scratch of the girl’s pencil as she underlines a few of the numbers, does some calculations on the side. 

And then, finally – “… you’re right.” She glances down at him. “You do math, at your job? Accounting?” 

“Not really,” he mutters. “I just remember doing things like this back in grad school.” To take the attention off of him, he looks up at her. “Business major, right? Why business major? What’re you going to use it for?”

“I want to start my own business,” she explains, looking back down at her notebook full of scrawled equations. “Why I need this, I don’t know.” 

“Balancing your finances,” he replies. “But it helps if you hire someone to do it for you.” 

She snorts. “I don’t think I’ll ever make enough money for that, but nice shot.” 

“What are you hoping for, if not to make money?” he asks, frowning. 

“I do a sort of reclaimed object thing,” she explains. “Turning trash into treasure, that sort of thing.” 

“So …. Pinterest.” 

She elbows him so hard his bare forearms squeak across the table. She’s sitting on the table and he’s leaning behind her, both of them looking out at the rest of the laundromat. He snorts, pushing his fake glasses back up his nose as they slide down from her hit. “Pinterest for people who have no creativity or just don’t want to do it themselves,” she explains. “Which is actually a lot.” 

“Why not be original? Create things that don’t exist yet?” he asks, watching her as she erases her previous answer and writes the new one in. “Invest in inventions that will change the world someday.” What he does, essentially. Or what his company does. Create and invest. It’s a constant cycle. 

“Because do you know how many things people throw out that are either reusable or recyclable?” she asks, looking down at him. He blinks up at her. “They leave it on the side of the road to be picked up with the trash when all it needs is some sanding, repainting, oiling and putting new knobs on,” she mutters. 

“I take it you’ve reclaimed a few wardrobes and china cabinets,” he says flatly. 

“13.” 

“That many?” 

“One woman wanted it to look like a watermelon.”

He snorts. “How’d you do that one?” 

“Painted the inside pink with black dots, the outside green with stripes, the inner doors white,” she explains. 

“How’d it turn out?” 

“She liked it, and gave me 20 dollars extra. My opinion on the piece doesn’t mean anything if the customer likes it.” 

“But what’d you really think of it?” 

“I didn’t eat watermelon for a year.” 

He snorts, shaking his head. His eyes find the pen marks on her legs. He’d once asked about them, expecting to find meaning in the swirls, some sort of lyrical backstory to add to her charm. But no, she just likes drawing circles over and over again on her tan skin. Her friend Finn’s the one with the constellations, the doodles on his skin, drawn by her other friend Poe. He’d asked about them after seeing her phone background, a picture of the three of them in the city park with Poe’s corgi between them.

He still doesn’t know her name. It’s a constant guessing game, though he guesses she thinks she introduced herself when he told her his ‘name’.

It’s been three weeks since then. 

“I give up.” 

The notebook’s harsh ‘slap’ against the metal table startles him. The mechanical pencil drops and rolls off of the table, and he watches as it hits the tile floor and the lead breaks off to soar somewhere. He blinks, looking towards her. 

“Don’t give up,” he mutters. “That won’t get you anywhere.” 

“Just for now,” she insists. “My head hurts. I’m getting a soda, you want one?” 

“Root beer,” he replies, reaching into his pocket to get the quarters. She holds her hand out and he drops them into her palm, enough for two, and watches as she makes her way to the soda machine. 

There are red lines on the backs of her thighs from where the edge of the table cut into her legs, and he smirks a bit as she slips the quarters into the machine. 

His phone starts ringing, sharp and shrill. He scrambles for it, frowning. It’s 11:30. Who the fuck would be calling him at this time? 

Hux, apparently. The man never sleeps, it seems. He huffs, swiping and putting the phone to his ear as she watches him, having been startled just as he’d been from the noise.

“What?” he demands. 

“Tik just dropped out.” 

He stills. “He didn’t.” 

“He did. 600,000 gone.” 

“We’ll make it up.”

“Before Thursday?” 

“We’ll make it up,” he insists. 

“Ren-“

“Hux. I need a meeting with Snoke, and Kanji. Make it happen. Tomorrow.” 

“… I’ll let you know when.” 

He hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket, sighing. He goes up to run a hand through his hair before remembering that the itchy blond wig is held on by only bobby pins and stops, reaching around to rub at the back of his neck instead to make it look less awkward. 

The sweating bottle of root beer’s set next to him. “Everything okay?” 

Kylo glances towards her, taking in her furrowed brows and worried frown. 

“Fine,” he insists. “Everything’s fine.” He reaches for his soda, trying to ignore how his anxiety’s bubbling like the foam on top. He opens it and it spews, bubbles spilling up and over his hand. He grimaces, holding it out over the tile floor as it continues to spit and hiss. He sighs at the sticky mess on the floor and over his skin as the girl watches, eyes wide. “… yep. Everything’s fine.”

-

He doesn’t make it back the next Tuesday. Tik’s withdrawal left them scrambling, and the next week is meeting with investors and negotiating for more time and speaking with production companies. He’s left exhausted and pissed off more often than not, and by the time 11 rolls around on Tuesday he can’t bring up the energy to scrounge for clothes. 

He regrets it by Wednesday, needing something – and someone – more cheerful in his life. Hux is no ray of sunshine, though he sometimes enjoys talking to the other man if for no reason than to harp on him and be snapped at in return. 

When he walks into the laundromat the next Tuesday, everything seems a bit more irritating. His wig feels itchier than usual, his glasses feel like they’re sliding down his nose every 30 seconds, and he’s fidgeting when he sees that she’s not there. 

He loads his clothes in, save for one t-shirt, and waits. 

11:05. 11:10. 11:15. 

Still no sign of her. 

He buys a root beer at the machine, and cracks it open. 

It doesn’t fizz or explode like the previous one, thankfully, and he sips from it as he waits. 

11:30. There’s ten more minutes on his load before he switches to the dryer. Still no sign of the pretty business major. 

He finishes his root beer and tosses it into the trash. 

The washer beeps. He transfers everything over. The Han Solo t-shirt’s still at the bottom of his laundry bag, folded and washed and worth almost $300. He’d balked at the price, but it was from one of the four shows that his father did solo, so he can understand it. 

It sits at the bottom of his bag as he loads the quarters in and continues to wait. 

A half hour passes. The metal of the table’s warm from him leaning against it. He’s sure he has permanent dents where the edge of it’s digging into the back of his thighs. 

Midnight comes and goes. The dryer beeps. He takes a few minutes to fold everything, to fold it again. At 12:20, he decides she isn’t coming. 

He slams the door to the dryer he’d used closed with a little more force than necessary, the loud ‘bang’ echoing along the tile of the empty laundromat. 

He stuffs everything back into his bag – screw if it’s folded, he’ll just refold it when he gets home – and hightails it out of there, head low and wig ripped off within five minutes of leaving the laundromat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, haven't touched this one in a little while! Been focusing on a darkjedipilot Roman Emperor story that should be up soon, but I woke up and wanted a little modern fluff this morning. Hope this works!  
> I might be bumping the rating up with the next chapter, as well, just so you all know. To an M or maybe even an E?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Definitely had to bump the rating up for this chapter. I have no idea what happened. At all. All of a sudden I just ... wanted this.   
> So, so sorry that it turned out this way. I wanted to keep it sweet and fluffy, but that just ... didn't happen. And I wrote this. So ... yeah.   
> Sorry?

She comes in like a whirlwind. A pissed off, huffy whirlwind that startles him so much he nearly drops his phone to the tile floor. 

She looks like hell. He can tell her hair’s on its second day, maybe third, and the circles under her eyes are darker than they’ve ever been before. Her white jean shorts have definitely seen better days, if the coffee stain on the front is anything to go by, and he blinks at her obvious lack of bra beneath her nude-colored tank top. She yanks open one of the washers and stuffs her things in, not even bothering to glance at what they are. 

“You just put a pair of white jeans in with a red pair of underwear,” he says, watching as she stops, bent-over towards the machine. 

It’s like his words have popped a balloon, and her shoulders sag, free of tension. Within moments she’s pulling everything out again, setting it on top of the washing machine slowly.

“Thanks.” 

It’s mumbled, and he watches as she separates the lights and darks and throws them in separate machines. She loads her quarters in, and curses softly when she comes up short. By the time she turns around to ask him for three more, he’s already pulling them from his jeans pocket and offering them to her. 

Her smile’s tired, and he can see her face a bit more clearly as she turns around, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she says again, just as softly as she takes the quarters from him and feeds them into the machine. It starts after a moment, and she lets out a long sigh that confirms that something is definitely wrong. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, and he feels like an idiot, because of course it’s not. 

“Finals week,” she says, and he cringes on her behalf as she hops up onto the table. He walks around and leans on the machines across from it, facing her and crossing his arms over his chest as she swings her legs and looks at her toes. Her canvas flats have seen better days, too. He’s pretty sure he can see a bit of orange toenail polish through one of the holes in the cream-colored fabric.

“How many do you have?” 

“Five,” she groans, reaching up and running a hand down her face. “And I need to get at least an 89 on all of them.”

“Jesus, kid. Why’s that?” 

“GPA,” she explains, wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes are still towards the floor. “For my scholarships, and the internship.” 

“You need help studying from someone who’s been there, done that?” he asks, raising a brow at her. 

“No, it’s just … “ She huffs, unwrapping her arms and bracing them against the table, leaning forward with her fingers clenched on the edge. “I’m stressed. And this time last year I had a boyfriend who would buy me beer and fuck me until I was raw to take my mind off of it, and I don’t have that anymore, and Poe and Finn are no help because they’re in love with each other and gay besides and –“ 

She stops abruptly, brown eyes darting up to his as she visibly cringes, looking back down at her feet. 

Well, then. Kylo stares at her, blinking at the very sudden, very personal bomb she just dropped. For a few moments, the only sounds in the laundromat are the buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the sudden ‘thunk’ing of their machines as the loads tumble around. 

“… I’m sorry?” he offers, because he can’t think of anything else to say. How’s he supposed to respond to that? He has no clue. 

“No, I am.” She reaches up, runs a hand down her face, and sighs. “I’m just stressed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … to tell you all that. That was … a lot of private stuff, I’m sorry. Fuck, you must think I’m a complete nutjob.” 

He watches as she groans, covering half of her face with her hand. “… no,” he mutters. “No, yeah, I get it. I mean, I turned to smoking when I was stressed in college, but I get it. You need something to take the edge off."

“Exactly!” 

Her outburst is so sudden it startles him into jumping back against the machine he’s leaning on, the metal digging into the skin that’s just above his jeans and just below where his t-shirt’s ridden up. “Yeah,” he offers. “Yeah, I get it. The stress of exams plus the whole scholarship and internship thing, I get it.”

He gets it. He does. And it hurts to watch her as she seems to crumble like a Nature Valley granola bar into herself, bracing her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. 

“Fuck me.” 

He barely hears it. It’s muttered against her hands, and has the same tone of when he says it almost every day when Hux brings him the newest disaster on a silver platter. It’s not an offer. It’s not an offer, he tells himself, watching her and taking in her swinging bare legs and orange chipped nail polish through the ratty canvas shoes and the hair that even under the buzzing fluorescent lights has a tinge of auburn to it. 

“All right.” 

The damn words fall from his lips anyway, and he wants to repeat her words for himself as she stops, her legs stilling and eyes peeking from between her fingers. Her hands drop, and but she doesn’t straighten, instead staring at him in disbelief.

“… are you serious?” she asks. “"Are you serious? Because honestly if you're being serious I might take you up on that but if you're not then that's just downright cruel and awkward and you know what just forget I said anything." She groans and sits up a bit, running her hand along her hair before it meets the topknot she’s thrown it up into. 

He’s serious. He’s more serious than he wants to admit, watching this stunning being as she stares at him in shock. He’s relieved to see there’s no horror, no disgust in her features. Only disbelief, like she can’t quite wrap her head around the fact that he offered. 

He can’t wrap his head around it either. 

“There’s no one around,” he says, shrugging. “It’s almost midnight, the light in the left corner’s been out for the past month. I haven’t seen anyone walk by the window for the past half hour, and there’s no one else in here but you and me. You want me to pull those shorts down and put my hand between your legs? I’ll do it. You want my mouth there? Can do that too.” 

He doesn’t know why he says that. He doesn’t know why he’s even offering. She’s the kind of girl who deserves more than just a quick fuck up against a cold, metal washing machine. But damn if he doesn’t want it. 

There’s nothing but the buzz of the lights and the discordant rocking of their machines for a few heartbeats. He can feel his heart in his throat, thudding so hard it nearly chokes him as he watches her, meets her eyes and waits for either acceptance or rejection. 

He’s more than a little surprised when she slides down from the table, her feet hitting the tile floor with a soft ‘thud’, and walks over to him, grabbing him around his neck and pulling down. 

She tastes sickeningly sweet, like those energy drinks he sometimes indulges in when he has a late night. She kisses him like she’s desperate – he guesses, in a sense, she is, and he loves it as she bites at his lower lip and yanks him to her. Her hand’s hot on the back of his neck, curling into the blond hair of his wig. He desperately wants her hand in his own hair instead of feeling the slight pressure through the wig, but it’ll do for now. His hands find her waist and he pulls her closer, spreading his legs a bit so that she can step between them. She presses herself flush against him, and he can feel her nipples against his chest through her tank top and his thin t-shirt, hard from the chill of the laundromat. 

He slips his hands down to slide into her back pockets, cupping her ass. When she sucks on his lower lip and lifts her leg to hook around his, he moves his hands out and over her shorts, lifting her into his arms. She hitches her legs around his waist, arms tightening around his neck as he carries her to the table and sets her down again, her bare thighs squeaking against the cold metal as he pushes her back. 

Her legs are still wrapped around his waist as he takes one of the thin straps of her tank top and moves to tug it down, pulling back to look down at her. She looks like sin personified already, lips pink and slightly swollen from their kiss. Her eyes are blown, dark and narrowed at him. 

“Can I?” he asks, nodding towards the strap he has pinched between his forefinger and thumb. 

“Fuck, yes,” she breathes, and he obliges, pulling that side of her tank top down. She leans back and pulls her arm from the strap so that she can wrap it around his shoulders as he looks down at the small pert breast he’d just revealed, dusky brown nipples and small dark moles dotting her skin. He thinks back to the bralette he’d accidentally taken, imagines it covering her skin. It’s a pretty image. 

“They’re not the biggest, sorry,” she mutters, and he looks up to see that she’s looking down at her own breast, cheeks red. 

"They're great,” he mumbles back, hand reaching up to cup the soft skin as he moves in to kiss her again. His other hand moves to her waist, shoving the nude fabric up so that he can touch her bare skin and pull her closer. 

The kiss is almost bruising. He knows her hands are, with how tightly she’s clenching his shoulder and upper arm. He has to bend to kiss her properly, run his tongue along her lower lip and taste behind her teeth. She’s no gentler, nipping at his lower lip and seeming to want to own his mouth. 

He moves from her lips to her jaw, kissing but not daring to leave any marks. From what he’s heard of Finn and Poe, he knows they’ll ask if she has any sort of hickey on her. 

Besides – she’s not his. This is a quick fuck, that’s all. Maybe not even a fuck, depending on how far she’s willing to go. 

He latches onto the breast that’s uncovered, sucking hard enough that he feels her keen and hears her whine. “Fuck, it’s been too long,” she breathes, and he hums against her skin as he swirls his tongue around her pert nipple. He feels her hand leave his shoulder and out of the corner of his eye watches as she grabs her other breast, gripping it over the fabric. Her other hand is still holding his upper arm, nails digging into his skin. He’ll have crescent-shaped marks for sure. 

He pulls off of her breast and moves to kiss her as he reaches down to unbutton her shorts. “This okay?” he asks against her mouth as he tugs the button from its hole. 

“Yeah,” she insists. “How do you want to do this?” 

“Slide off,” he says, keeping his arms around her as she slips from the table and stands between his legs. “Turn around.” 

“You’re not fucking me over the table,” she insists. 

“I’m not going to fuck you over the table, I’m going to put my hand in your shorts and you’re going to hold onto the table,” he mutters, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder. “How’s that sound?” 

“Great,” she breathes, voice hitching a bit as his hands find her hips and guide her back against him. He wonders if she can feel how hard he is in his jeans, her ass back against his cock.

She wiggles a bit, this slow roll of her hips that has him groaning softly. She can feel him, he’s sure. He can see her soft smirk in the reflection of one of the dryer windows, can just barely see the bottom half of his face behind her. 

He pulls the zipper of her jean shorts down and slips his hand just inside. Oh, no. She’s not wearing any underwear. He stops, bending to meet her eyes in the reflection.

“Haven’t done laundry in a while,” she explains, rocking into his hand as he slips it down to cover her cunt. “No bra, either.” 

“Noticed that one,” he mutters, pressing more kisses to her shoulders and the nape of her neck as he moves his palm against her. She’s wet already, and he scrapes his teeth along the skin of her shoulder. It really must’ve been a while, if she’s getting wet at the thought of him. He’s a stranger with a bad wig and dorky glasses. There’s no way she’s turned on by him. 

“External’s better,” she says quickly, and he hums in understanding as he moves two fingers to her clit, pulling the slight hood back to rub against the nub. As soon as he brushes it she bucks her hips back into his, bending slightly. “Oh, fuck!” 

“I didn’t know you had a mouth like that,” he teases, smirking. 

“Sorry,” she breathes. “It’s just-“ her hips buck again, and he feels her hand as it shoots down to grab at his wrist. “-been a while.” 

“How long?” he asks. 

“9 months,” she explains, and in the reflection of the dryer door he can see her close her eyes, can feel as she leans back against him, her head resting against his shoulder. He takes advantage of the position to brush a kiss against her temple, fingers stroking at her clit teasingly. He can hear her soft whine, the slowest roll of her hips as she tries to get more friction. 

“Beautiful.” It slips from his mouth before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it as he hears her sharp intake of breath through her nose, and there’s the slightest stutter in the way her hips move against his. 

He grinds against her, biting his lip as his own arousal spikes like one of those hammer machines at the carnival. She grinds back, to his relief, and turns her head to kiss him. The angle’s awkward, and he has to crane his neck a bit, but it’s softer than their previous kisses, a bit sweeter even as his hand moves against her clit beneath her shirts, fingers dipping into her slit to spread the slick of her arousal upwards. 

Her hips buck against his hand as she cums with a soft gasp, the sensation apparently taking her by surprise. He can feel her fluttering against his fingers, and desperately wishes that he’d slipped them inside of her, but she had said external. Her hand grips his wrist, holding his hand against her even as she relaxes into him, turning to press a kiss to his jaw. 

“I could blow you, but that would be obvious to passerby,” she mutters against his skin. 

“Like this wasn’t?” he asks, but he gets it. He also understands if that’s just a cover excuse. He’s a stranger, after all. Having his fingers down her pants is one thing. Having his cock in her mouth is another. 

“Don’t think I don’t want to,” she mumbles. “You can cum on my stomach, if you want. I can toss the tank, I don’t wear it much.” 

“God, yes,” he breathes, heart stuttering as she turns around. Her jean shorts are hanging low on her hips as she leans back against the table, and he’s grateful it’s bolted to the floor as she spreads her legs to let him step between them. Her tank top’s rucked up from his movements, revealing somewhat pale skin dotted in the same marks that are scattered across her breasts. She leans back as he unbuckles his jeans and opens them just enough to pull his cock out of his boxer-briefs. 

He hears her low whistle, and looks up just in time to see her laugh, smile bright. So maybe he hadn’t fucked this up, as he worried. “What?” 

“Bigger than I thought,” she says, voice teasing as she reaches for him. He lets her, moving his hands away so that she can stroke at him. She has callouses, light ones on her palms, probably from working with tools. But her hands are hot, and smaller than his, and hers, so it feels a lot better than if he was tugging himself off. She presses her thumb to the tip, and he watches as a dab of precum emerges. Her grin broadens.

“That hard, huh?” she asks, leaving one hand on his cock and using the other to pull him down for a searing kiss. He closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of her hand and her mouth as she licks at his lower lip before sucking on it, finishing with the slightest nibble as she sweeps her thumb over the tip again, reaching down and into his boxer-briefs to cup his balls and squeeze lightly. He jolts a bit at the sudden sensation, wanting to look down and watch but not daring to pull his mouth away from hers. 

He cums a bit more quickly than he would’ve liked, but honestly he’s glad it’s on her instead of inside her. That wouldn’t have gone well. He groans against her mouth as he goes over, bucking his hips into her hand and cumming on her stomach. He can hear her soft sigh against his lips, and when he pulls back her mouth’s slick and red. She grins at him, looking down at where his cum’s covering his stomach. To his complete shock, he watches as she dips her finger in before raising it to her lips, raising an eyebrow at him as she puts it in her mouth. 

“How do you exist?” he asks, before remembering he has her own arousal still on his fingers. He slips them between his lips, raising an eyebrow back at her as she grins around her own fingers. 

“Mind switching my things over to the dryer while I take care of this?” she asks, nodding to the cum on her stomach. 

He nods, tucking his cock back into his pants and zipping up quickly. He chances a quick peck to her lips, smiling as she accepts and touches his cheek lightly. “Sure, anything that can’t go in there?” 

“Underwear,” she replies. “And bras.” 

“Sure you want me touching those?” he asks, stepping away from her. Whereas he looks somewhat presentable, cock back in his pants and glasses only a little askew, she looks completely and utterly fucked. Her shorts are still low and unbuttoned, one breast still out and her stomach still sticky with his cum. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, swinging her legs and watching him. 

“I don’t care,” she replies, and he does as asked, moving things to the dryer. He pays, slipping the quarters in and starting it. When he turns back around, she’s wiping the cum from her stomach with the tank top, grimacing. She’s pulled the tank top back up to cover herself, though her stomach’s still bare as she looks at the stain on her tank top.

“Should’ve thought this through. I won’t have a dry shirt for another 45 minutes,” she explains, nodding towards the dryer. 

“Oh, here.” 

The Han Solo t-shirt’s still in his bag from the last time he’d come to see her and left alone. He reaches into it, pulling the soft, worn cotton out and offering it to her. “Figured you might want one of them.” 

It’s kind of comical, how she looks. Her eyes widen considerably and she’s grinning like a little kid despite the fact that he just had his hand down her shorts. “No way,” she breathes, reaching for the shirt and taking it from him. He watches, crossing his arms and leaning against the table as he watches her unfold it and hold it up. It’s one of the rarer ones, from his dad’s solo tour. He’d done some research, and while it could go for a bit of cash, what difference does a few hundred bucks make when he has the bank account that he does? Not any, really, and so he watches as she beams, running her fingers over the butter-smooth cotton and grinning so hard he’s afraid her face is going to crack. 

“You’re serious?” she asks, accent more noticeable now as she stares at him.

He shrugs. “I don’t really need the cash,” he explains. “Figured I might as well give one to someone who really wants one.” 

He watches, amused, as she yanks her tank top over her head. It hits the floor soon after, and he snorts as she sits topless for a second before she’s pulling the t-shirt over her head. It’s big on her; he’d expected that, but she’s grinning down at it and smiling as she pulls the front of it out a bit to look down at the stylized Han Solo singing into the mic. 

“Thank you.” 

It’s one of the softest sounds he’s ever heard, despite the brightness of her smile. He’s almost startled by it, and he offers her a half-smile back as he watches her and the way her legs kick happily, the way her hair’s falling from its topknot and her cheeks are flushed from their previous activities. 

“You’re welcome.” 

-

“I GOT TO THE NEXT STAGE!” 

Kylo jumps, glasses slipping down his nose as she rushes in and tackles him in a hug hard enough to push him back onto the table. He blinks down at her, reaching to hold her. Her bag’s dropped by the door, and the middle-aged man across the laundromat is staring at them as Kylo hugs her back. 

“That’s great!” he says. “… next stage of what?” 

“The internship!” she insists, grinning. “They interviewed me a few Mondays ago, remember? And I’m in the next stage! They’re going to narrow it down after this one, and I’ve gotten a 93, a 97, and a 91 on three of my finals. If I get 89s on the rest of them, I’m going to forward them my transcript and hope that it’ll help their decision!” 

“Wow, that’s great.” He sounds perhaps a little less enthusiastic than he’d like, but he’s unused to being enthusiastic about things. 

If she notices, she says nothing, instead grinning as she slips from his arms and walks back to grab her laundry bag. “Sorry!” she calls to the man across the laundromat, who just huffs and moves his things from the dryer to a blue plastic laundry basket. 

She’s wearing the shirt. His shirt. The Han Solo shirt, over a pair of ripped skinny jeans. She hops up onto the table next to him, legs swinging as she grins. He looks out towards the laundromat, watching as the older man leaves. The bell’s still not fixed, so the door just slams shut behind him.

“Thanks, for last week, by the way,” she says. "You ... really helped me."

“Sure,” he mutters. “It was … it was nice.” 

“Poe and Finn noticed a difference.” 

“And what did you tell them?” he asks, looking towards her again.

“I told them that I got felt up by the hot guy at the laundromat I’ve been telling them about,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“You’ve been telling them about me?” he asks, blinking in surprise as her smile turns into a smirk.

“Yeah.” She leans over and bumps her shoulder into his. 

“You think I’m hot?” That was the first question he should’ve asked, probably.

“A bit,” she replies. 

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Her shoulder’s warm against his upper arm, and he realizes that neither of them have put their laundry in yet. But he doesn’t mind – his load’s small anyway, and he can risk a bit of sleep to stay up later if it means spending more time with her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, the final part! Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments on the previous chapters, and HUGE thanks to undergroundvalentine and t0bemadeofglass for their insights and support through this entire story! Go check the baes out, they're absolute perfection and I love them so much <3  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the very sinful last chapter!

“Your intern’s been chosen.” 

Kylo glances up from the files on his desk, frowning at the redhead standing in the doorway with a black folder. “What, I don’t get a choice in the pathetic student I spend the next six weeks with?”

“No,” Hux says simply, walking over and dropping the black folder on Kylo’s desk. The taller man stares at it. “She’s impressive. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she might be hirable after. Please, for once, don’t be the cause of her inevitable anxiety-induced panic attack during the second week.”

Kylo scoffs, shaking his head as he pushes his glasses up his nose. They’re thinner than his Matt ones, sleeker and more modern. Less ‘bad 80s school photo’. “Impressive how?” 

“Highest GPA of the group, and impressed the interviewers with her knowledge of economics. Well spoken. Professional. She’ll be a good fit, I think.” 

“The best fit would be no one at all,” Kylo mutters. “When are they coming, again?” 

“She should be here in the next 10 minutes. They’re having the tour now.”

“Fucking hell, Hux, give a man some warning!” he hisses, looking around at the coffee mugs littering his desk as well as the files spread along the dark wood. He stands and tries to straighten them, glancing down at the black folder. He opens it quickly, scanning the young woman’s profile. “Rey Jakksun.” 

“20 years old. Business major,” Hux provides. 

“As long as she can manage to get my coffee right, she’ll be fine,” Kylo mutters as he shoves the folder the side in favor of organizing some of the proposals they’d gotten over the past few days. “Any word from Tik?” 

“If you’re asking if he’s going to offer us the money back, the answer’s no.” 

“Fuck,” Kylo mutters viciously, raking his hand through his hair. He straightens, and stops dead when he sees _her_ through the glass walls of his office, watching as she comes around the corner, speaking to Phasma. She’s looking up at the much-taller woman, nodding in understanding as the blonde explains the ins and outs of being an intern for the head of a company.

He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, the rush of blood in his ears as he waits for the inevitable. She’s not in some ratty t-shirt and shorts this time. No, she’s in a smart cream-colored button down and brown skirt, the shirt tucked into the waistband and her hair down. He hopes to hell as she gets closer that it’s not her, because it’s completely possible that it’s a young woman who just looks like her, but then she grins and he’s gone. It is her. It is definitely her. 

“And here’s where you’ll be working,” Phasma’s saying. “Hux?” 

Kylo watches in complete horror as Hux opens the door for her, and she steps in, smile bright until her eyes find him. And then they widen, and she stops dead in the doorway, her grip on the water bottle she’s holding loosening until it falls to the floor and rolls towards him. 

“Hi,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. He’s shocked it even comes out as a word, if he’s completely honest. Or maybe it didn't; maybe he just thinks he said hi when all that came out was an indistinguishable croak.

“Hi,” she replies, still staring at him with wide eyes, looking like a deer in headlights. 

“Kylo, Rey Jakksun. Rey, Kylo Ren,” Hux introduces, gesturing between the two. 

This has to be a joke. This has to be. Somehow Hux found out about his trips to the laundromat, somehow figured out how to rope Rey into this, somehow came up with this plan to humiliate him and ruin everything. “How did you know?” Kylo asks, and it comes out as a whisper as he stares at the redheaded man. 

“How did I know what?” Hux asks, frowning, and Kylo unfortunately knows the man well enough to tell when he’s bullshitting and when he’s not. This isn’t bullshitting. This is just absolutely horrible bad luck.

“That we know each other,” she – Rey – says. His eyes move to her, and she’s taking a step forward to get her water bottle when he reaches down to get it for her. “Thank you.” She says it quietly as he hands it back to her. 

“Oh. Great. I’ll let you start her on what to do, then,” Hux explains. Phasma’s already gone, and Kylo’s torn between pushing the man out of the office and pulling him right back into the room as he walks out, glass slowly closing behind him.

“I like these glasses better.” 

Kylo looks towards the young woman – _her_ – Rey. Rey. Rey Jakksun. 

“Rey,” he mutters. “So that’s your name.” 

“And ‘Matt’s sure as shit not yours,” she replies, frowning at him as she clutches the folder of introduction information to her chest. “How long before you were going to tell me?” 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he would’ve ever told her. He guesses he would’ve, eventually, if they’d decided to ever pursue something. But even if they’d made that decision, he has no idea how he would’ve dropped that bomb to her. So he just shakes his head, reaching up to run his hand through his hair as he looks down at his shoes. “I don’t know,” he admits. 

“I wrote a paper on you.” 

His gaze snaps to her, where she’s crossed the room to set her folder and water bottle down on a side table. She then leans back against it, like he’s seen her lean against the laundromat table dozens of times, hands back to brace against the edge and legs crossed in front of her. “What?” he asks. 

She sighs as she lifts a hand, running it down her face before cupping her jaw so that her lips are against her palm. “I wrote a paper on you. Three months of research. Journal articles, gossip articles, interviews, financial reports, the works.” She snorts, a laugh without any humor as she shakes her head, eyes falling closed. “I should’ve seen it sooner. But I guess I was so used to you looking like ... well, this.” She gestures to him, and he looks down at his suit, a sleek navy number with a white button down. He looks back up to her, her eyes meeting his. She looks upset, and understandably so. He licks his lips, shakes his head.

“I’m sorry.” For lying. For hiding from her. For not telling her. For making her trust ‘Matt’ enough to have his hand between her legs and his lips on her neck. He bites his lip, watching her as she laughs again, aloud this time, shaking her head.

“Fuck me,” she mutters, and he watches as her eyes snap up to him. He smirks at her, raising an eyebrow at her slip up. “Not … not like that,” she adds quickly, waving her free hand in dismissal of her words. “… not now.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, a bit quieter, because it’s the only thing he can think to say as she reaches up to run her hand through her hair, her eyes falling closed.

“Your dad’s Han Solo. That’s why you had so many of those shirts.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re Kylo Ren.” 

“Yes.” 

“Fucking hell,” she breathes. He watches her as she sighs and crosses her arms over her chest, looking out the large glass wall that overlooks the city. Her eyes move back to him after a moment of awkward silence. “… were you really ever going to tell me?” 

“Would you have wanted me to tell you?” 

He’s expecting an immediate ‘yes’, but he doesn’t get an answer for a few heartbeats, her gaze locked on him but lips still as she stares. 

“I don’t know,” she eventually admits.

It’s a soft sound, barely whispered, and he bites his lip as he watches her. 

Her shoulders are hunched, and gone is the sunshine that usually comes with her. She’s pressed her lips against her palm, leaning against the table as her eyes move to the floor. 

“I can have you switched to another position,” he offers quietly. “I can ask Hux if he can switch. You can work with him instead, or maybe shadow Phasma.” Her head snaps up so quickly he’s concerned for her neck as he shrugs a bit, arms still crossed over his chest. “Ultimately, it’s up to you. If you don’t want to work with me, or think that it might be difficult, I can write you a recommendation for any position you’d like, in this company or in another.”

“No.” 

The answer’s immediate. Her hand falls from her face, and she pushes herself off of the table to walk to him. She stops three steps in front of him, and he stares down at her as she looks up at him, more determined than he’s ever seen her. “I applied for an internship to work at First Order. When they told me I was assigned to you, I flipped my shit. I’m not going to let the fact that you put your hand in my pants stop me from working with you.” She holds out her hand, and he stares at it. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you, Mr. Ren.” 

He blinks at her offered hand. The hand he’s seen holding a stain pen, a regular pen, her underwear and his old band shirts. The hand she’d used to grab his wrist, hold his own hand against her cunt. He hesitates for a moment, and she apparently takes it the wrong way because soon after her hand’s falling along with her soft smile. 

“… if you’d like to transfer me, I can-“ she starts, but he shakes his head and offers his hand instead. 

“The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Jakksun. I know you won’t disappoint me.” He offers her a smirk. “After all, I helped you with your homework.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Her smile brightens just the slightest bit a bit as she takes his hand and shakes it. 

-

“Hey, Matt – I mean, Ren – Mr. Ren – fuck.” 

He blinks, looking up to see Rey standing in the doorway, hanging onto the doorframe and hanging a bit from it, tan legs peaking out from a white romper. He can see where she’s drawn circles on her thighs, and smirks slightly. He has to admit, he likes the professional look on her. But he likes the spot cream and messy top-knots better. “What is it?” 

She walks forward and sets his coffee on his desk. She waits for half a moment for him to pull the cup closer to him before she puts the folders down. “I – “ she starts, but then she stops, biting her lip. “Hux told me to give this to you.” 

“Thank you, Rey.” He takes a sip of the sickeningly sweet coffee. 

She nods, turning on her heel and leaving, her mission complete. He watches as her steps get a bit faster as soon as she’s past the doorway. He sighs, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning just a bit more on his desk, opening the top file she’d delivered. 

It’s been awkward, at best. She’s slipped up and called him ‘Matt’ more than once, often a few times a day. Hux had raised an eyebrow the first time he’d heard the fake name, but Kylo had insisted that it wasn’t important after a few prods from the other man. He might’ve snapped a bit, but he blames it on his annoying partner instead of his intern’s mess ups. 

Between her calling him ‘Matt’ and the fact that he still likes her despite everything, the past two days have been hell. She never speaks to him unless it’s to give him something or explain what someone wants, and he’s hardly spoken to her unless it’s to explain how to complete a task. 

He hasn’t seen her this off, this drained since the night he slipped his hand between her legs. And he hates that, this time, he’s the cause of it. 

“Ma-." She stops, sighs, runs a hand through her hair in frustration. "Mr. Ren.” 

“Yes?” 

“Hux is asking for you.” 

“Thank you.” He grabs his coffee and stands, hoping maybe he’ll brush by her shoulder at least. But no, she steps aside enough that unless he purposefully moves towards her, there’s no chance in hell that he’ll touch her. Her eyes are lowered, and he gives her a nod as he walks by. A glance over his shoulder shows that she’s still standing in the doorway to his office, shoulders hunched and hand in her hair.

He hates this.

-

The offer for the transfer still stands. And he makes it known the next Tuesday, question soft as she goes to leave after delivering his fourth coffee of the day. 

“Hux is happy to take you on. So is Phasma, if you’d rather work with her.” 

She stops in the doorway, her back towards him. He watches her, stares at the lace back of her top for a few moments. She’ll accept, he’s sure. 

The past few days have been torture. Words barely spoken, names mixed up and smiles slight and sad when she gives them. He knows full well he’s fucked up, but thinking back, he has no idea how he would’ve fixed it. Maybe he should’ve said that Han was his father when she first asked about the shirts. Maybe he should’ve told her his actual name when she asked. Maybe he shouldn’t have even had a wig in the first place, maybe it would’ve been better to have been honest from the beginning. 

But he doubts it. He doubts she would’ve spoken to Kylo Ren like she had ‘Matt’. He doubts she would’ve allowed his lips on hers, allowed his hand between her legs, put her hand on his cock. He wants to grimace – not at the memory of touching her, but at the lies he’d said to get there, even though the only lie he'd really given her was his name.

“Are you going to do laundry tonight?” she asks. It’s almost harsh in its delivery, words loud in the silence of his office. 

He stares at her back as she turns her head just slightly over her shoulder, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He waits for half a heartbeat before replying, “Are you going to?” 

“I need to,” she replies. “But I guess you don’t. I had your suits and shirts sent to the dry cleaner’s yesterday.”

“I have a few things I can toss in.” 

“11?” He can barely hear her. 

“11. And can you tell Hux to call the Kanji Club? They’re late on their 23,000. He’s the one who’s supposed to handle it.” 

She nods and leaves, and he watches her go, regretting. 

-

 

She's already there when he approaches the small business. He can see her through the dirty windows, sitting cross-legged on top of the metal table with a binder in her lap. He takes a deep, steadying breath before letting out a soft ,"Fuck," and deciding that nothing's going to calm his nerves. He should've gone to the corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes, he thinks, before he smashes that thought down immediately. No, that would be a terrible idea.

Whiskey, however, sounds like a great one.

However, having neither, he just has to deal with his stomach flip-flopping as he pulls the door open. The bell's still broken, the sound of his sneakers on the floor the only sort of fanfare he gets. She doesn't look up as he walks to her, setting his bag down. She says nothing as he unloads his clothes into the washer, and stays silent as he slips the quarters in. He moves to lean against the machine across from her, crossing his arms over his chest as she sets her binder aside and moves to let her legs dangle off the edge of the table. It's then that she looks up at him, and she looks tired. Maybe the anxiety-induced panic attack will come early for her. 

"Want to explain why you didn't tell me?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself. She sounds upset, and he hates himself again. It wouldn't be the first in the past few days.

"What was I supposed to say?"

"The truth," she mutters. 

"I'm sorry." He means it. "I really am. It's just ... it started out as trying to wash that sweater, and then it turned into coming back to see you, and then ..." And then more happened. He's not surprised she's upset, not at all. He just wishes she wasn't.

"Where'd 'Matt' come from?" she asks.

"Honestly? 'Laundromat'."

"You're kidding."

"I panicked," he explains.

She snorts. It's not a full on laugh; it's barely a snicker. But it's something. "No wig this time, either."

"Figured it wasn't worth the headache, literally," Kylo mutters, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "I hated that thing."

"Blond's not your color," she replies, and he offers her half a smile. The pressure in his chest lightens when he sees her give one back.

“Good to know,” he mutters. 

Things are quiet after, a bit tense as she reaches for the binder again, tugging a pencil from the topknot she’s sporting and writing on the margins. For a while, the only sounds are the machines and the lights, until she makes a soft, frustrated sound and erases something vigorously. 

“What’s that?” he asks, frowning. 

“Summer classes,” she mumbles, writing in the space again. 

“On top of the internship?” Kylo asks, watching her as she sighs. No wonder she looks tired. He hates that he feels a bit relieved, but at least he’s not the entire cause of her stress. 

“Yeah,” Rey sighs again, running her hand down her face. “So that I can have a bit more time in the fall to take up another job. Because while the internship pays, it doesn’t pay enough for me to pay the bills on my apartment. And with school out, I lost my job at the store and with the internship I don't have time for restorations." 

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing he can think to say. He pushes himself off of the washing machine, walking over to stand next to her. He watches as she fills in another word answer. It’s a worksheet made to look easy, fill-in-the-blanks style. But he can tell she’s having trouble with it, words long and jargon-y. 

“This one goes there,” he mutters, pointing from the word to the blank space she just erased. 

“That’s what I thought, but can’t this one go there too?” Rey asks, pointing to another word. 

Kylo blinks, frowning as he reads the sentence with each word. She’s right – they sound equally correct. “Fuck,” he breathes, leaning forward a bit to look at the rest of the glossary. 

“I know, right?” she asks, and he turns to look at her, taking in the dark circles starting to form under her eyes and her 2-day hair. She looks almost exactly as she had that night, except now she looks more tired than frustrated. More stressed than angry. She looks on the verge of tears as she bends over this stupid worksheet.

He mutters a soft, “Hey,” as he eases the worksheet from her lap. He pulls the pencil from her hand, as well, and wraps his arm around her waist. To his surprise, she goes willingly, leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder. 

He presses a kiss to her forehead, feels the way she freezes against him. Fuck. “I’m sorry,” he says, for seemingly the up-teenth time. 

“You called me beautiful. The last time. Well, the time before the last time," she murmurs. 

He pauses, gaze moving to the flickering light across the laundromat, the one above the fern that desperately needs to be watered. He can feel the weight of her on his shoulder, the heat of her waist beneath his hand. “I did,” he replies, recalling the heart-stopping moment well, the flicker of panic. “And you are.” 

She snorts softly, turning her face more into his shoulder. He looks down to see that her eyes are closed. “Was that as Matt, or as the great multi-billionaire Kylo Ren?” she mutters, sarcastic. 

“Only difference is a bad wig and shitty glasses,” he admits. 

“So if I told you that I wanted you to finger-fuck me on the table, would you do it?” she asks. 

“Yes.” The answer’s immediate. 

He hears her sigh, and then she’s curling more into him. He wraps his arm around her tighter. “I don’t need that,” she mumbles. “I want it, but what I really need is a Redbull, an A in this class, a night’s sleep that’s more than 3 hours and about $900 by next week for rent that I’m probably going to have to borrow from Finn and Poe – again.” Now she really does sound on the verge of tears, voice choked. 

His wallet’s in his back pocket. He doesn’t have his checkbook, so cash will have to do. He reaches back, pushing himself off of the table just a bit to get the slim black leather wallet. In the process, he dislodges her, and he can tell she’s dead in her feet by the way she jolts forward and sways a bit. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters as she blinks at him tiredly. 

“What’re you-“ Rey starts, but then her eyes widen as she watches him pull a few hundred dollar bills out. He's a bigger fan of cash than card, honestly, and he looks towards her as he counts a few. “No, I-“ 

“Either you take it in your hand, or I find some way to shove it in either your dryer load, or your backpack,” he tells her, pulling 10 hundred bills out for her and holding them out to her.

He has no doubt that it’s more money than she’s seen in her life. Well, at least in cash. She stares at the bills, eyes much wider than before. She doesn’t reach for them, though, and instead shakes her head. “Matt-“ she starts, before she realizes that the man before her isn’t Matt anymore, and tries again. “Kylo, I can’t.” 

“Would it make your life easier?” he asks, raising a dark brow at her. 

“Well, yes, but-“ 

“Then take it,” he insists. “Use the 900 for rent, and then use the last 100 to buy yourself a shit ton of Redbull and coffee. Or shoes that don’t have holes in them.” He nods down to her canvas flats, her now-blue toenail polish visible through the holes. 

She shakes her head, and looks more near tears now than ever. He watches as she starts to cry, still shaking her head as she screws her eyes shut.   
For all the times he’s seen her come in smiling, and dancing, and exuding sunshine, he’s never once seen her cry. And he hates that he’s seeing it now, watching in silence as the tears slip down her cheeks. 

And then she’s laughing, shaking her head as she presses the heel of her palm to her forehead. “Of all the people you could’ve turned out to be,” she says, looking towards him. 

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters as he offers her the collection of cash again. 

“Kylo, you know I can’t take that,” she insists, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m not going to take it from you.” 

“Then I’m going to find a way to stick it either in your back pocket or your backpack,” he insists again, holding it out to her. "I don't want you feeling like you can't take care of yourself - I know you can. I know damn well how smart you are. Hux was impressed with you – he doesn’t say that lightly. If this,” he says, gesturing with the hand holding the cash, “means you can focus and get the A you deserve, take it."

She stares at him before shaking her head again. “I can’t pay you back,” she replies. “At least, not for a while. I haven’t even paid Poe and Finn back.” Her laugh’s humorless as she reaches up to pull her hair down from its topknot, running her hands through it instead. “Besides, I don’t like handouts.” 

He knows she doesn’t. He’s heard enough about her childhood in foster homes aplenty to know her position on being handed things straight from someone else’s hand. "You still have the t-shirt. You could’ve sold that for $300 bucks, easy. But you didn’t.” He nods to the cash. “It's not a handout. It's to help you breathe, think, and stay on your feet. I'm not saying you're incapable, or that you can’t handle yourself. I’m saying that sometimes you might need a little help. Like I needed help with that damn sweater.” 

“Lending someone a stain stick and lending someone a thousand dollars are two completely different things,” Rey protests, wrapping her arms around herself again and staring at her feet. “Please.”

“Rey.” 

He keeps his voice firm, and low, and watches as she looks towards him. She looks between his face, his raised brow and his stern look, and the cash in his hand. After a few moments, she wordlessly puts her hand out, and he slips the money into it. 

“Business has been slow,” she admits quietly as she runs her thumb over Benjamin Franklin’s face. “Like I said, I haven’t taken as much with the internship and the class.” 

“If you take on your restoring as well as the internship and your class, you’re going to run yourself into the ground,” Kylo insists, stepping closer to her so that her shoulder’s bumping into his upper arm. “And you’re pretty much doing that already.”

“I know.” It’s a quiet admission, and she leans more into him as he wraps his arm around her once more. “… can you just … I don’t know, hold me? Just for ten seconds, or something?” 

Hold her. Yes, he can definitely do that, and he'll happily do it for more than ten seconds. He nods. He wordlessly moves around to the front of the table. She spreads her legs so that he can slip between them, and he feels her knees as they bump against his hips. He wraps his arms around her as she loops hers around his neck, and he just holds her. 

He hears her soft sigh as she relaxes into him, pressing her face to his shoulder. He rubs at her back through the thin t-shirt, feeling the small straps of the bralette she’s wearing through the fabric and the bumps of her spine. 

“I failed my first year of college," he tells her.

He feels her still against him, can hear her flat-out confusion as she asks, “What?”

“I failed,” he replies. “My first year of college. I decided that music festivals were more important than classes, which is how I had all those t-shirts. I straight up failed because I didn’t show up. To tests, to class, to anything.” 

She pulls back, and he sees her frowning as he stares down at her, arms still loosely around her. “But all of my research said you’re a genius. Top of the class, impeccable grad school student. The best of the best.” 

He snorts. “Clearly they didn’t know me outside of grad school.” 

She stares at him in surprise. “… okay, why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “One, to show you that it’s okay to fuck up. Two, because the point is life is about struggles, but you're gonna always find a way to pick yourself up through the hard stuff. I failed the first year, said ‘fuck’, bought myself every single textbook I could, and picked myself up so I could get my shit together. And if you can't pick yourself up or get your shit together, it doesn't mean you failed. It just proves who among your friends will be ready to piggy-back you until you can touch the finish line yourself.” 

She’s still staring at him, fingers curling loosely into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck as he bends to press his lips to her hair. He hears her soft sigh as he mutters, “I know you’d probably rather have this coming from ‘Matt’, since you seem to know him better, but I’ll help you through anything. Take that however you want.” Meaning sex, money, more time, release from the internship, what have you. 

She doesn’t say anything, but then she’s tightening her arms around his neck. He hums softly as he feels her shift, and then her lips are being pressed to his jaw. 

“The articles I read didn’t tell me you were too nice for your own damn good,” she mutters. “Thank you.” 

He smiles a bit as she curls into him. The washing machines beep to announce their completion, but he doesn’t let her go and she doesn’t make a move to try to escape, so he just holds her until the beeping goes long enough to make his head ache. 

-

“Hey.” 

It’s late. She should’ve gone home hours ago. He blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose as he looks up at her from where he’d been standing at the window, having just hung up with Hux. She’s already packed up, leaning against the doorway with her messenger bag on one shoulder and the other braced against the frame. 

“Hey,” he replies, watching as Rey steps into the office. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Wondering why you haven’t gone home yet. It’s Friday, I would expect you out at some expensive, exclusive bar or something,” she says, setting her messenger bag on one of the chairs in front of his desk before walking over to stand next to him.

“And I’m wondering the same about you,” he replies. She moves to lean against the thick glass, crossing her arms over her chest and crossing her ankles. She’s in a sundress today, a blazer over top and her ratty canvas shoes on her feet. He watches her, facing the city lights. They cast stark shadows and colors across her face, and she turns to look at him, smile slight. “Why are you still here?”

“I was talking to Phasma,” she explains. “Woman in the business world, that kind of thing.” 

“And the conversation went past 11?” he asks, raising a brow at her as she shrugs, turning her head more to look out the window at the bustling city below. He’d turned the lights off ages ago, and it allows for a better view of the lights and the cars. He observes her as she observes the life around them, noticing the freckles on her cheeks and how the warm light of the city highlights her small features.

“I also wanted to see if you wanted to get something to eat, but I guess that’s sailed,” Rey mutters. “Doubt anything’s open at this point.” 

“You could’ve come in,” he replies with a frown, running his hand through his hair as he watches her shrug again. 

“You were talking to someone.” 

“Just Hux,” he explains. “No one important.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, like your business partner’s no one important,” she replies, grinning. He smiles as well, slipping his phone back into his suit pocket. She’s right about it being late. He could’ve gone home hours ago, but ahead of the deadline is much better than on it. Still, he’s on track to have the proposal complete three days ahead of time. He can go home, now. 

“Want to fuck me against the window?” 

It’s as blunt as her first offer. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t actually an offer. But it’s as blunt as her first rant, he guesses, as he looks towards her in shock. He can see the pink of her cheeks, the flicker of regret as he spends a bit too long staring at her in surprise.

“… do you have an exhibitionism kink or something?” he asks, snorting as he looks back towards the city lights. 

“Says the man who offered to fuck me in a laundromat,” she replies wryly, but she doesn’t deny it. “I was just testing your words.” 

“Which ones?” 

“That the only difference between Matt and Kylo Ren is a bad wig and shitty glasses.” 

“That’s right,” he replies, beginning to see where she’s going. 

“So… if I tell you that I'm incredibly stressed, and in need of a good fuck, would you do it?” Rey asks, and her smile’s a bit shyer, but broader all the same as she slides to lean against the window directly in front of him. He takes advantage of the new position by bracing his hands against the thick glass. She’s silhouetted by the lights, and he hums as he cages her in. She makes no move to slip away, though he leaves enough room between them to give her an out if she decides to take it.

“I think you know the answer,” he mutters, sliding his knee between her thighs. She parts her legs for him further, arms looping up and around his neck to pull him closer.

“I want to hear you say it,” she insists.

“Yes, I'd fuck you,” he says quickly. “Do you need me to go put on a blond wig and 80s glasses to convince you?” 

“A kiss will do,” she admits as he slides one hand beneath her blazer to hold her waist. 

“I think I can do that,” he mumbles as he leans in. She meets him halfway, and he hums against her mouth as she kisses him. Her hand slides into his hair, tugging him closer, and he sighs, grateful that he doesn’t have to wear that damn wig anymore. He can feel her fingers against his scalp, and how she’s tugging on the strands as he chances a nip to her lower lip. She hums back, opening her mouth to him. This time she’s not as sweet; good, no more layers of energy drinks and sugar. 

He moves his right hand to her knee, sliding it up her bare thigh. He stops when he reaches the edge of her dress, humming softly. “… were you serious when you asked me to fuck you against the window?” he asks. “I do have a perfectly good desk. And an even better apartment.” 

“I like the window,” she admits, and it sounds a bit shy as she pulls back, resting the back of her head against the glass. “It’s cool. I’m hot.” 

“Damn right you are,” he mutters, and winces. All right, so he totally deserved the smack upside the head he just received. He grimaces, reaching the hand that had been on her waist back to rub at his head. 

“The air conditioning can’t keep up,” Rey explains. “Blazers get hot.” 

“Tell that to my suit jacket,” he mumbles as she strips her blazer, revealing the thin straps of her dress. She has to be wearing either a strapless, or no bra at all, he realizes, her shoulders bare aside from the thin white ribbons. He watches as she wordlessly pulls the dress straps down and wiggles from the dress, letting it fall to her hips. Strapless bra. A white one, he notices, plain but pretty since it’s on her. Her dress stays at her hips, but he knows with the slightest push that it’ll go down. 

“I would not have pegged you for this type when I first saw you,” Kylo admits, watching as she leans back against the glass, sighing as her back hits the cold. 

“And I wouldn’t have pegged you for Kylo Ren when I first saw you,” she retorts as he pushes the fabric from her hips. He watches as it falls down her legs, white fabric pooling at her feet. He moves his hands to her thighs, lifting her up and bracing her up against the glass. She toes her ratty canvas shoes off as the dress stays on the floor, and goes willingly as he pushes her between the glass and his body, her legs wrapping around his waist. It’s significantly less frenzied than the time in the laundromat, and he’s grateful no one else is here, janitor already having left as well as he pushes her up against the glass, hands holding her up. 

She wraps her arms around his neck for support, and slots her mouth against his. He can feel the cold of the glass brush his knuckles, the heat of her skin against his palms as he holds her up. She’s a comfortable weight, though he is distributing it between himself and the glass. Her hands move through his hair, slow and gentle as she tugs through the few knots that have formed over the day. 

He can feel her hands push his suit jacket from his shoulders, and he shifts, slipping his thigh between her legs to hold her up as he pulls one arm out at a time. It falls to the floor, joining her clothes and shoes, and then he’s back to holding her. 

“I like this,” Rey tells him as he moves his lips from her mouth to her jaw. He kisses a path along the curve of it, moving to her ear before starting another trail down her neck. 

“Like what?” he asks. 

“You,” she admits. “I like you.” 

“I like you, too,” he mumbles against the skin of her collarbone. “Have for a while. Why do you think that I kept coming back to the laundromat, washing band t-shirts obviously haven’t worn in a decade?”

He’s pulled up for another kiss after that, and he can taste her smile on her lips as she tugs him closer, one hand moving from around his neck to attempt to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

“Hang on,” he mutters against her mouth, letting her go once he’s certain she’s supported. She keeps her hands on his shoulders and her legs around his waist, his thigh braced against the glass to support her ass as he undoes his shirt quickly. Her hands move to his chest for a moment as he sheds the shirt before moving his hands to her hips again. He can see her smile in the technicolor city lights, feel her hands as she moves them up his chest, sliding her palms along his pecs. 

“I want your hand on me again,” she explains. 

“I think I can do that,” he replies, and stares as she slips from his arms, relying solely on the leg between her thighs to keep her up. He lowers her slowly, and then she’s turning towards the glass, hands braced on it and back towards him. 

He catches on quickly, and reaches forward to undo the latch of her bra. He takes advantage of her back to him and bends to kiss at her shoulder, hand sliding up to cup her right breast as his other hand slips to her hip, thumb hooking in the waistband of her panties. 

“You weren’t wearing these last time,” he mutters. 

“I wasn’t wearing a bra, last time either,” she replies, turning her head slightly so that she can brush her lips against his. “Or a dress. Or a blazer. And it was in a laundromat, not-“ 

“I remember it, thanks,” he says, laughing against her mouth as she grins, kissing him as deeply as she can with the difficult angle. He slides his hand beneath the cotton of her underwear, humming when he feels her wet already. “Huh, guess you really do have an exhibition kink.” 

“You started it,” she breathes, bucking her hips as he runs a finger along her slit. He realizes he’s neglected her breast, and starts kneading softly, listening to her pleased hum for a few moments before he switches. Her nipples are hard against his palm, no doubt because of the cool glass as she’s pressed against it. Idly, he wonders if people can see them, though he doubts it. The lights are off, shrouding them in shadow as he presses her against the glass. 

“Did I?” 

“Mhm,” she hums. “I got off to the idea of you fucking me on one of the washers.” She moans as he finds her clit, two fingers rubbing slow circles against her. He moves his hand from her breast and pushes her up flush against the window, smirking at her harsh gasp. “That’s colder than I thought it would be!” 

He laughs, kissing at her neck and freckled shoulders, skin warm despite the fact that she’s protesting at the cold. She’s hot against his hand, wet and slick as he alternates moving his fingers along her folds to her clit and back again. He keeps it slow, letting her roll her hips against his hand when she needs more friction. There’s no sense in rushing this, not when he has the time to touch her like this. He hopes to hell and back that it’s not the last time. 

“You like this?” he mumbles. “You like being pressed up against the glass, where the whole city can see you as you press your tits to the window? You like showing them how good it feels to have my hand on your cunt? Is that it? You like showing off?” He slips his hand down more, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit just to feel her hips jerk against his hand. He smirks, meeting the gaze of his own reflection in the glass. He can barely see hers, see the way her mouth is open. He can see the fog of her breath as she pants against the window. One hand keeps her steady on the glass and the other moves to grab his wrist, just like back at the laundromat. Her hand slips down to cover his, fabric stretching around their hands as she presses his harder to her. 

He obeys, pressing harder but keeping the same pace as she moves her hips with his hand. She hums softly, and he wonders how the hell he managed to get here, her pressed between him and the glass window of his office, his hand in her panties and holding her hip. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, and he can feel her hips as they stutter against his hand. He pulls his hand out soon after, and hears her soft hiss of, “What?” before he’s grabbing her wrists and tugging her around, pressing her back against the glass. He doesn’t even bother wiping his hand off as he uses both to hoist her up. She clings to his shoulders for support as he uses one hand to hold her up and the other to unbuckle his belt.

“You want this?” he asks, stopping once he reaches the button of his suit pants. “I don’t have a condom.” 

“I’m clean,” she breathes.

“Pill?” 

“Implant,” she replies, one hand slipping into his hair as the other digs into his shoulder. He can feel the sting of her nails against his skin, pain sharp but grounding as he pulls his cock from his boxer-briefs. She’s still wearing her panties, and he can feel the heat of her breath as she presses her forehead to his, watching and clinging to him as he moves the head of his cock against the soaked fabric covering her crotch. Her breath hitches when he presses up against her clit, and he meets her eyes, brushing his lips against hers briefly. 

“Tell me to fuck you,” he murmurs. 

“Fuck me,” she breathes, and he smiles a bit as he braces her against the window and uses his left hand to pull the fabric aside. He slips into her as slowly as he can, knowing full well that he hadn’t prepped her with his fingers. He hears her hitch of breath, and looks up at her as he stills. 

“No, go,” she insists. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, though she bites her lip as he continues. He grips her ass, kneading the skin beneath his hands as she takes him. She lets out a sigh when he’s buried to the hilt, and then a breathless laugh follows. “I meant it when I said you’re bigger than I expected.”

“You okay?” He sounds slightly strangled. She’s hot around him, and impossibly slick, and so tight he can barely move. He feels her lips brush his nose, his cheek, his chin before they finally find his, hands clenching in his hair. 

“Fine, you can move,” Rey mutters, and he takes the offer gratefully, pulling out as far as he can before sliding back. He groans at the slight friction, wondering how long it’s been for her if she’s this tight. 9 months, she’d said, but he guesses she didn’t exactly count self-pleasure in that. 

“Fuck,” she breathes as he goes again, pulling out almost all the way before pushing hard. He can hear the squeak of her bare skin against the window as she clings to him. On the third thrust, she moves her hips with him, and he groans. 

“Not going to last long,” he hisses, honestly. It’s been a while for him, too, and he’s grateful as she hums. 

“Me either,” she replies. “At least, not if you rub my clit, too.” 

“Think you can hold yourself?” he asks, brushing his lips against hers in a chaste kiss. 

She gives him the slightest nod, and her hands tighten around his shoulders as he pulls one hand from holding her and reaches around to slip his fingers between them. He can feel his cock slip in and out of her as he finds her clit, rubbing slowly before picking up the pace both with his fingers and his thrusts. Her laugh is breathless as her nails dig into his shoulder, and he’s fairly certain he’ll bear marks in the morning. She bows into him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder before tipping her head back and arching as he presses deeper than before. “Shit, Kylo..." 

He wouldn’t have thought window sex to be hot. But he keeps his eyes on her chest, trying to memorize how the city lights reflect on her sweat-slicked skin, the squeak of her bare flesh against the glass with every single move he makes inside her. He kisses her, though it can barely be called such, open mouths meshing together as he quickens the pace of his fingers. 

She goes before him, the build up of her previously denied orgasm on top of the new one sending her over the edge. He can feel her as she cums, hear her quiet gasp and feel her clenching around him as she grips his shoulder tight enough to bruise, the other hand tugging at his hair. He has no doubt that, if he was wearing the wig, it would’ve been pulled off long ago. Bobby pins don’t do shit aside from make it itch more, he’d discovered. 

This time he does come inside her, and he hears her satisfied hum as he fills her, his mouth sliding to her jaw as he tries to hold her up. He moves forward, pressing her further against the glass and feeling the slide of her chest against his as he rests his forehead against the cool glass. All right, he understands it, now. The cold of the glass against his heated skin feels heavenly, and he closes his eyes as he just revels in the fact that he’s holding her. He can feel her press kisses to his shoulder and neck, arms and legs still wrapped around him and his cock still buried inside her. 

“Come home with me,” he mutters as she kisses his cheek. Her skin’s hot, glass cool as he turns to press his cheek to the window. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Hmm,” she replies. “If I’m allowed to explain to Finn and Poe why I’m not coming home tonight.” 

“Are you going to tell them that you fucked Matt or Kylo Ren?” he asks, feeling her smile against his skin. 

“Well, who just fucked me?” she asks. 

“Me,” he mumbles. “I told you, the only difference-“ 

“Is a bad wig and shitty glasses,” she finishes, laugh soft. “It depends on whether you want the world to know that the great Kylo Ren’s fucking some girl he met at a laundromat.” 

“I’m sure we can come up with something a bit more romantic than that.” He pulls from her, and helps her find her footing again. He sinks to his knees, pulling his suit jacket towards him so that he’s not kneeling on the hardwood. She stares down at him, hands moving to his hair as he slides between her still-parted thighs. 

“What’re you-“ she starts, frowning, but he moves to press the flat of his tongue against her folds. He can taste his own cum, bitter, and her, salty from sweat and somewhat sweet as he licks a stripe up from her slit to her clit. Her hips buck, and he finds his nose pressed to her clit as she tries to hold him there. He goes willingly, tongue slipping inside her. It’s not exactly the most pleasant taste, but he hears her moan as he swallows the cum from her. 

“Fucking hell,” Rey breathes, and he hums, feeling her hips jerk again. He reaches up to press her to the glass, keeping her steady with his hands on her hips as he sucks, lapping at her folds before finding her clit and sucking that, too. She’s a mess, and he wants to smirk. She’s always been a bit of a mess; ratty shoes and ripped jeans and stained shirts and spot cream. But he loves it, loves pressing his mouth to the apex of her thighs, loves how messy she is against his face. He pulls back after he feels her clench on her tongue and feels her thighs shake from the effort of holding herself up, and he licks his lips as he moves away, sure that his face is slick from her. 

She’s grinning, laughing as she lets go of her death grip on his hair to allow him up. “Please tell me this is going to be a normal thing,” she begs as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching for his dress shirt to wipe his hand on the cotton. 

“The window sex, or fucking in general?” he asks, raising a dark brow at her as he pulls his shirt back on. He grabs her dress as he bends to pick up his blazer, offering it to her by a strap. Rey takes it from him, still grinning as she adjusts her panties back to their rightful place before sliding the dress over her head. She doesn’t bother with her bra, scooping it from the floor along with her shoes. He watches as she walks over to her messenger bag, slipping the bra into it before sliding her flats on. His heart skips a beat when she walks back towards him, arms already lifted to wrap around his neck. He steps towards her, into her arms as he wraps his around her. She pecks his lips, humming softly. 

“I was thinking fucking in general,” she replies. “I like this. I like it a lot.” 

“Would you mind if we threw a few coffee dates in the mix? Or dinner?” 

“I think I can manage that, as long as we go someplace cheap,” Rey admits. 

“Or I treat, how about that?” he asks. 

“I won’t argue with that. Rent’s going up in two months,” she replies, making a face. 

He kisses her forehead as she presses herself closer. He can feel her nipples through her dress, pressed against his chest as he hugs her tighter. “I’ll help you with whatever you need.” 

She hums in thanks. “… does visiting the laundromat count as a date?” 

“I’ll bring take out.” 

“Sounds perfect. Tuesday at 11?” 

He grins. “Tuesday at 11.” 

“And, just to clarify, you’re going to take me home now and fuck me into a mattress instead of against something?”

He snorts, shaking his head as she goes up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, his arm wrapping around her as he wonders how in the hell he’d managed to find love at a laundromat.


End file.
